You whisper winds away.  You stir dry dust,
imagine you can resurrect the dead.
But, Carlos, in this cemetery, dust
remains just what it is.  In these green hills
there are no flowers grievers do not bring.
You bring them too, but know you are too late
and far away — in place and time and deed.
You hear true angels, but banish from your sight
the signs they wave.  You would so fain ignore
the truths that love has offered you for free.
So pay.  Go play.  There’s penance waiting you.